Legacy of the Hound
by Muffy Morrigan
Summary: Shortly after they return from Dartmoor, Sherlock starts to notice something off in John. Will he figure out the mystery in time, or will a single act destroy them both? Hurt!John COMPLETE
1. Sherlock

_Author's note: This story takes place immediately after Season two, episode two, The Hounds of Baskerville. I got the idea as I was watching the show for the first time and it wouldn't leave me alone. I wrote it, then set it aside as I worked on other things. I discovered it the other day, and decided it was time to post. Let me say again, this story was written and is based on the characters as they existed only to this point in season two and does not take into account anything that has happened since. Thank you to TraSan and thank you all for taking the time to stop by and read. Huge hugs for all!_

 **Legacy of the Hound**

He was terrified. It was a novel sensation, and certainly far from boring. Terror. It blew the cobwebs away with the force of a jet engine, it also pecked away at rationality with a firm hand, slowly ticking away until there was nothing left but the overwhelming desire for action, and he couldn't act, if he did, it would all be over. And that thought, that single thought right there—it terrified him even more.

"John, please…"

Sherlock held out a trembling hand, an offer of—peace? Security? Friendship? No, not friendship, that thought was bitter. He had brought this down on the one person on earth that cared enough to stand behind him no matter what the cost. The man who, on the second night they had known each other, had killed a man to save his life—and now they were here because of a stupid, selfish need to test a theory. He should have used himself, but then how could he know? Why, why had he used John? The question would haunt him forever, and if the next few seconds played out the way it looked like they might, it would more than haunt him.

It would be his ruin.

 **Several Hours Before**

"Please tell me there is something," Sherlock said as he paced around the flat. They'd returned from Dartmoor two days before.

"Nothing on the website, nothing in the papers. Sorry, Sherlock," John said. Sherlock frowned and looked over at the doctor, there was something off in his voice. Looking closer, he noticed the dark bags under John's eyes and the smallest tremor as he picked up his cup of tea from the table. "You could call Lestrade."

"Call Lestrade? Really, John, I would rather wander the streets peering in windows than call Lestrade." He looked out the window. "Why are people just walking around, not doing anything interesting? Why?"

"Well, I'm sure someone will run rabid any second now to amuse you," John snapped, slamming his cup down. Sherlock turned from the window. The reaction was utterly surprising from his friend. "Sorry, I'm sorry." John picked up the cup and went into the kitchen.

That was when Sherlock noticed the slight limp. At first he thought he was mistaken—or maybe John's foot had fallen asleep as it tended to do when he sat too long in one position. But no, this was different. The way his leg dragged slightly was different. It reminded Sherlock of the man who had walked into Bart's so long ago, leaning heavily on a cane. He shifted to get a better view of the kitchen as John put his cup down—and there was something else, John's left hand—the doctor clenched his hand, moving the fingers to still a tremor.

"I'm going to bed," John said without turning around. He limped out of the kitchen and headed up the stairs. He was leaning heavily on the bannister, using it as he once had used the cane.

Sherlock stepped silently across the floor, watching as John walked. Once he was sure he was out of sight, John was barely able to stand, each step looked like an agonizing movement forward. As soon as he reached the top of the stairs he stumbled to the wall and used it to hold him up until he made it into his room.

Frowning, Sherlock went to his chair, tucked his feet under him and leaned his chin on his hands. His boredom was gone, in its place a puzzle—John Watson. As far as he knew, the doctor hadn't been injured on their latest case, and while a turned ankle could happen at any time, it didn't explain the hand tremor. When had that started? Sherlock closed his eyes, thinking. Had it been on that bright morning after Baskerville? John had held the mug in both hands, but the night before it had been John's steady hand and marksman's eye that had brought down the hound.

John had been out of temper since they got home. Of course one of the experiments in the kitchen had decided to escape its prison and had left a strange colored foam over half the room. The smell had disappeared quickly, but one of John's favorite pairs of shoes was no longer brown but an odd chartreuse. Sherlock really didn't see why that set John off, after all, the foam had ruined four other experiments in its expansion and Sherlock had just accepted it as the way things happened sometimes. Still, John had thrown the shoes out the window and stormed out, not returning until late in the evening.

He'd been limping. The memory flashed in front of Sherlock's eyes. He'd been watching for John's return, and the doctor had been limping, but as he came up the stairs the limp had disappeared, so Sherlock had wondered if he'd imagined it. Why had he dismissed it so quickly? John had sat reading quietly for an hour before going up far earlier than usual. He'd come back downstairs briefly, then went back up again.

Sherlock remembered John had gone to his cupboard. They each had one, considered sacrosanct. Now, thinking about it, Sherlock went to John's cupboard and opened it. It was mostly mundane, he nearly closed it when a bottle caught his eye. Pulling it out, he stared down at the sleeping medication. It was a high dose of a powerful sedative. The date on it was from months before—when they had first met in fact. Had John taken one the night before? Had he taken one tonight? He'd opened the cupboard before going upstairs. Why? Why did he need them?

What was going on?

Sherlock went back to his chair, staring at John's as if it could give him and answer. Now that it was in front of him, running like an old silent film—jerky and too fast in some parts, too slow in others—he could see that John had been far from his usual self since they'd returned. Since they'd been apart most of the day the day before, Sherlock had no idea if John had received an unsettling phone call. He spotted John's phone on the table beside his chair—that in itself was out of the ordinary, he always had it with him. Sherlock picked it up and scrolled through the call log. The only calls and texts were from him, nothing else. The last one was from this morning when John had disappeared for several hours and Sherlock had texted him to come home and John had replied—uncharacteristically—to leave him alone, although in far cruder language.

Why hadn't he noticed that? John rarely spoke that way, even when he was furious.

Right in front of him all the time, the answer to his boredom, and he missed it. Sherlock was annoyed with himself. What could it be? The doctor was between women, could that be it? No, that was quickly dismissed. John had been through several and while he occasionally got moody, it had only lasted a day or two.

And that didn't explain the limp…

Sherlock's musings were shattered by the scream of anguished terror from the top floor. He was moving before his mind had time to tell his legs to move, flying up the stairs in three bounds and slamming open John's door. He turned on the light. John was sitting up in bed, shaking, his head in his hands.

"John?"

"It's nothing, I'm fine, go away."

Sherlock took half a step into the room, then stopped and turned away. John had actually flinched as he approached. As he closed the door, Sherlock realized that flinch had hurt, physically hurt him. It had hit him somewhere in the solar plexus and felt like a solid punch.

He had taken one step from the door when the realization of it all slammed into him with far more force than that single punch. He was sweating, his hands shaking with reaction. In another step, he started to feel his legs go, and he slid down the wall, ending up on the floor next to the door to John's room, his own head in his hands.

The drugs. The drugs he'd exposed John to had somehow reached into the part of his friend that John kept hidden from view, the part they never talked about, the part that had sent him home from the war and left him a cripple. Now it was his fault that John was suffering, trapped back in that place again, all because of… _Damn._ Sherlock leaned against the wall. John might not want him in the room, but he wouldn't leave him alone.

Half an hour later, John was crying out again. Sherlock opened the door and this time John wasn't awake, he was still trapped back in the war. He reached out to gently wake John, laying a careful hand on his shoulder and John was awake.

But it wasn't his John, it was someone else. This man struck out, knocking Sherlock across the room with a controlled movement that left him stunned for a moment and brought back the day John had told him he'd "had bad days". Before Sherlock could get up, John had his gun out, trained on him, his eyes wild. He looked around the room as if he was getting his bearings and with a final snarl at Sherlock, limped quickly out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock was up a second later, but John had jammed the door. The door to the flat opened and Sherlock raced to the window in time to see John slip across the street, staying in the shadows. Returning to the door to the room, Sherlock kicked it, and the jam gave way. He ran down the stairs and was halfway out the door when he realized he had to have help on this. He dialed Lestrade's number.

"This had better be good, Sherlock."

"Something's wrong," Sherlock said, at a loss of how to explain it.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice had changed.

"I think the drugs from Baskerville brought back John's PTSD. He's just left the flat, gun in hand. We can't let this get out," he said desperately.

"I'm on my way, where was he headed?"

"Into the shadows, south."

"Right. Be careful."

Sherlock broke the connection and headed in the direction John had been going, hoping nothing would happen until he found his friend.

Friend. The word tasted bitter. He'd told John he'd had no friends when he'd been lost in his own hurt and John had been trying to calm him. Instead of accepting that helping hand, he'd struck it away, John had every right to be angry with him. Of course, what Sherlock had said the next day was also true. He didn't have friends. He had friend. One. The only one he'd ever had. One who had been loyal from almost the first moment, refusing Mycroft's money, chasing through the streets to save his life, one who had been there no matter what had happened, no matter what he did. And Sherlock had repaid it with this… Using his friend, his one friend as a guinea pig. He should have thought it through, the fog had brought not just the horrors of the hound to Sherlock, but Moriarty. How much more would there be for John who had suffered through the hell of a horrific war?

His phone rang, he pulled it out. "What?"

"I just got a report about three blocks from you, a man is backed into a corner, not letting anyone get close. The patrol said it was another 'freaked out vet'," Lestrade said, giving him the address. "Those were his words, Sherlock."

"It's John, it has to be. Tell them to back off. I have no idea what he will do."

"If he shoots someone…"

"I am almost there. If he is going to shoot someone it can be me," Sherlock snapped and broke the connection.

He ran down the street and around the corner. He spotted the lights from the patrol car the instant before they went off. Lestrade must have gotten through to them. He could hear them talking to someone, and John's voice answering. As he reached them, he spotted Lestrade's BMW, the detective inspector must not have been at home when he called. Sherlock reached the car as Lestrade got out.

"Keep everyone back, no matter what," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock…"

"I mean it, no matter what."

"If he…"

"No. Unless we are both dead, you stay here."

Lestrade met his eyes, then nodded. Sherlock waited as the other police were waved away and he walked forward towards the man crouched in the corner. John's gun was trained on him as he approached, the muzzle steady, no tremor in his hands now.

"Stay back," John snarled.

"John…"

"Stay back."

Sherlock crouched down so he was on the same level as his friend. "John…" he said again. The gun wavered, the muzzle turning towards John. Every instinct in Sherlock was screaming for him to act, to stop what was about to happen. He reached out, his hand between them, palm up. "Please…" He saw it flash in John's eyes the instant before it happened, and Sherlock held still and let it happen.

The bullet hit him hard, knocking him back, his head slammed into the pavement and stunned him. He heard Lestrade shout to the other police there and hoped Lestrade would keep his word. Everything slowed down. Sherlock looked over at John, realizing his hand was still stretched towards his friend.

John was staring at him, not breathing, the gun hanging lax from his hand. For three painful breaths Sherlock watched as John struggled, saw him mouth "I'm just a doctor" and wondered what had happened that led to that comment, where it had happened, what his friend had seen. Sherlock saw it all pass across John's face.

Sherlock didn't want to turn away, didn't want to leave John alone. He tried to reach his hand out further even as his eyes were closing. He heard the clatter of metal, and the rustle of fabric.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice frightened, as he tugged at cloth over the bullet wound. "My god." Sherlock was shifted. It hurt and he groaned, trying to stop it, but unable to. "It went through, it's a clean wound. Why?" John was desperate.

"So sorry," Sherlock said. He felt odd, but he knew he had to get those words out. "John, I am so sorry."

John took his outstretched hand and wrapped his own around it. "You are such an idiot."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed right as the world disappeared.

 **XXX**

Sherlock shifted on the couch, trying to reach for his tea without John noticing. It was like trying to sneak something past—well—him. And just like nothing escaped Sherlock, John spotted the movement and was therein an instant.

"You are supposed to ask," John chided.

"I can do it."

"Just out of curiosity, how can you in good conscience text me from across town to come home to pick up a pen for you, but when you actually need help you refuse to ask?"

How could he answer that? The answer was simple—because he deserved to be hurt, he deserved to ache when he reached for his tea, he was the one…

"Oh for god's sake, stop that," John snapped. "I should have told you what was going on with me."

"John…"

"It's true, I should have told you that I'd been dreaming and blacking out after Baskerville," John said firmly. Sherlock drew a breath. "And it is not your fault. You thought you drugged me, but you didn't. I was exposed in the lab—and then again in the hollow. You had nothing to do with that, Sherlock."

Sherlock tried to struggle into a sitting position. John moved to help him, sliding the pillows behind his back and sitting on the table in front of him. "I did poison you," Sherlock said.

"You put sugar in my coffee," John said, nodding. "That was pretty awful."

"John…"

"And you did turn me loose in a lab with a recording of a hound."

"John…"

"But you aren't the one who drugged me, Sherlock. And _I_ am the one who didn't tell you what was going on. I should have, you were, obviously, in danger."

"John…"

"Just drink your tea," he said, handing Sherlock the cup.

"Do I get to say anything?"

"No, you said it already." John smiled.

Sherlock sighed. "John… I…."

"Okay, you drugged me, you used me as a test subject."

"I did."

"I think we're even."

"What do you mean?"

John grinned at him. "I shot you." He started laughing, Sherlock stared at him for a moment then started laughing as well—until it pulled the stitches in his side and John was there immediately supporting him.

John was right. He was an idiot.

 _Author's Note II: I have a second chapter, the same story from John's POV. Interested?_


	2. John

_Author's Note: Here is part two, the same incident from John's POV_.

 **Legacy of the Hound**

 _ **John**_

It was hard to concentrate. His leg was throbbing with a very insistent pain. It had been getting worse since they'd returned to London. When John had gone out the day before, he'd barely made it home, his leg giving out so badly he'd spent the last few blocks using various buildings, fences and posts and crutches. That wasn't the worse of it, though, there was a black hole in his memory that spanned two hours. He had no idea what had happened during that time, but he did know that when he came out of it, he was a long way from Baker Street, hidden in the shadows of a building set for demolition. He managed to pull himself together well enough to make it into the flat without limping too badly, but after an hour of Sherlock's pacing he'd gone to bed. Sleep eluded him, and he'd gone downstairs and taken one of the sleeping pills he hadn't used since he'd moved into 221B.

Now his fragile control was being tested by Sherlock. They had been back two days, and nothing interesting—by Sherlock's definition—had happened and he was bored. Never mind the fact the experiment that had left a slimy foam over half the flat still hadn't been completely cleaned up. Between the throbbing in his leg and the pain in his hand and shoulder it was all he could do to keep still so when Sherlock complained that no one was doing anything interesting, John snapped.

Silence greeted his remark. He glanced at Sherlock—the man was staring at him with an odd look on his face. John picked up his tea cup and walked into the kitchen doing his best to not limp. He managed to get his cupboard open and slide one of the pills out into his hand without Sherlock noticing. Not bothering to say goodnight, he headed towards the stairs. The first few he managed with just the banister for support, but the rest, his leg got heavier with each step and by the time he reached the top it was all he could do to make the transition from the banister to the wall and slide along it to get into his room. The last few steps from the door to the bed were a controlled fall, but he made it and dragged himself onto the mattress. He dry swallowed the pill and laid back, he would change clothes in the morning.

The pain that slammed through him pulled him from his sleep with an agonized scream. He reached immediately for his shoulder, his hand came away dry, and he knew where he was. He leaned forwards covering his face with his hands, his whole body shaking. It had to be the fog from Baskerville that had started this return of the nightmares and all that went with them. John tried to get control, fighting back the memories as well as the lingering effects of the hallucinogen and the sedative that was already trying to pull him under again. He needed to tell Sherlock, the man deserved to know what was going on in case this got worse and he ended up like poor Jack Turner.

"John?" Sherlock was at the door his voice soft, gentle, concerned. For a man who had said he had no friends, John really knew better. He could hear it in Sherlock's tone. Still he wasn't ready to deal with this, especially not with the sedative in his system.

"It's nothing, I'm fine, go away." The words hurt. He didn't want Sherlock to go away. Despite everything, he trusted the man with his life. He heard Sherlock take a step and John's body reacted—he flinched. The footsteps stopped and his door closed. He thought he heard something outside the door. He listened for a minute, waiting to hear Sherlock go downstairs, but he didn't. Sherlock must still be in the hall. There was something comforting in that. He laid his head on the pillow and within seconds the sedative took him again.

 **XXX**

Everything was always covered in dust, it always was. Trying to perform surgery was almost impossible under these conditions—not that he got a chance to do a lot of surgery. When he'd joined up, he'd expected to serve at a hospital, but things didn't work that way out here in Afghanistan. Yes, they had bases, yes they had some things that remotely resembled a hospital, but that was not where John was needed. He was out with the triage medics, the surgery he did was "down and dirty, keep them alive until they can get back to base" work. Stopping bad bleeds, occasionally removing bits of metal that were life threatening if the patient was moved. It wasn't what he'd expected, but it turned out he was very good at it. Many of the doctors who'd signed up cracked on the line. John didn't. He calmly dealt. He'd seen men die, he'd used his service Browning more than once. On one occasion when they had been unable to move and he knew they were going to be overrun, he and Jack had been forced to make sure their patients didn't fall into the hands of the incoming troops. Their patients—two men hit by antipersonnel landmines—were not going to live anyway, and to let them suffer torture before they died was irresponsible. So John had done what was needed.

Now he was stuck in this damn building, they'd been pinned down for five days. Every time they thought they had a clear way out, it was blocked. Their group that had been ten was now three. Mark, an officer from the 52nd, Jack and John. The bodies of the others were in the corner, covered, but the first to die had started to decompose. The whole country had that smell, John thought. He remembered reading John Masters and the comment the man had made about how the country had smelled of body odor and death. It was as true now as it had been in 1920.

Dusk had rapidly become night, the way it did in this country. Sunset never lingered here as it did in England. This was the danger hour. They liked to strike at this time, when you were most likely to let your guard down after a day of vigilance. John shifted, glancing over at Jack. The man was starting to break, he could see it. He'd never been suited for the front and had been on his way back to base when they'd been attacked.

Something scraped against the wall. John looked behind him in time to see the tall figure enter from the back. Mark was down with the first shot, the second slammed into John's shoulder sending a flash of agony through his body. Jack fired at the man, and John grabbed Jack and dragged him out through the door, taking a moment to secure the door to slow their attacker down, then they raced into the night.

Jack must have been hit. John realized the man was leaning on him as they ran. He stumbled, and felt the tear in his leg. Damn, Jack was slowing him down, but there was no way he would leave him behind. John had no idea how far they would get. The wound in his shoulder was beginning to get numb—which was not good. He could keep the adrenaline going for a little longer but after that they would have to hole up somewhere and hope an ally would come by. He spotted a dark cave-it was small, but enough to put solid stone at his back. He shoved Jack in and positioned himself in front, gun out, ready to fire if needed.

It didn't take them long to find him. There was a group of them there, shouting at him within several minutes. John tried to pull back further in the shadows. He could hear other vehicles approaching. He shouted for them to stay back, and they did—until their leader got there.

He approached John's hiding place—hands out as if he had no weapon. That wasn't fooling John this time. He'd seen too many friends die that way. "Stay back!" he ordered.

"John…" the man said, his voice familiar somehow.

"Stay back!"

The man crouched down and reached a hand out in a gesture of peace? Friendship? "John…" Again there was a familiarity to that voice that haunted him. It was useless, they were going to be taken. John couldn't let that happen. He couldn't… Maybe… He turned the gun on himself, aware of how large the bore was, the scent of the gunpowder and dust. "Please…" the crouching man said.

John looked at the gun for a second more, then without warning, turned and fired.

The man fell, his hand still outstretched, John felt a wrench in his gut. "I'm just a doctor," he said to the others gathered there, remembering the moment seven months before when he had been present at a massacre. The rebels had assumed he was unarmed and left him with their wounded. John had cared for them as his friends lay dead around him.

His friends.

Friends.

Friend.

John blinked, London appearing before his eyes. He dropped the gun and was moving. He dropped to his knees beside the man who still had a hand outstretched towards him, as if he didn't want John to be alone.

"Sherlock!" he said, terrified by the blossoming stain of red on Sherlock's shirt. "My god." He gently moved him, the reflexes of the battle line coming back easily, and checked—there was an exit wound. "It went through, it's a clean wound," he said. Part of him knowing that wasn't quite right, but the part that was still partially caught in the battle knew that it was a survivable wound. "Why?"

"So sorry," Sherlock breathed, sorrow lining his face in a way John had never seen. "John, I am so sorry."

Sherlock blamed himself, of course he did. John picked up his hand and wrapped his own around it. "You… are such an idiot."

"Yes," Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.

"Medics!" John shouted and suddenly he was surrounded by people. Someone pulled him up and away from Sherlock and he almost fought it until he heard Lestrade's quiet command to come with him. John went with him, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock.

"I'll get you there, John, and I'll make sure this…disappears," Lestrade promised as the got into the BMW.

"Thank you, Greg," John said, leaning back in his seat with a sigh.

 **XXX**

John was sitting beside the bed when Sherlock started to stir. He moved closer, laying a hand on his arm. "Sherlock?"

"John?" Sherlock said, his voice raspy.

John reached for the cup of ice water and slid his hand behind Sherlock's head and held the cup to his lips. "Drink."

Sherlock, for once, did as he was told, then opened his eyes and looked at him. It was a sad, agonized look. "John…"

"Are you in pain?" John asked immediately.

"Yes, but that doesn't matter. " Sherlock pulled him back down as John started to stand. "I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry for—I am the one who needs to apologize, god, Sherlock, why?"

"Why?"

"You let me shoot you, I could have…"

"I was hoping some part of you would recognize me and not kill me." Sherlock still looked distraught.

"That's a big assumption."

Sherlock frowned.

"You forgot about my shoes and the slime in the kitchen," John said with a smile, pleased when the sadness in his friend's eyes disappeared, replaced by a small smile of his own.

 _ **The End**_


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